


Between The Crosses

by freehugsforfandom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cancer, Deathfic, Gen, M/M, Not A Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freehugsforfandom/pseuds/freehugsforfandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An angel holds a man when he cannot go on anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between The Crosses

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the poem 'In Flander's Fields' by John McCrae, as are the lines at the beginning/end.  
> 

_In Flanders fields the poppies blow_  
 _Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place: and in the sky_  
 _The larks, still bravely singing, fly_  
 _Scarce heard amid the guns below..._

* * *

 

He was so fragile, like a precious glass ornament under a lick of flame. If wounds be openings to his soul, his soul was pouring from his arms, and his legs, and his chest. The slightest touch could splinter his heart, and with another he would shatter.

He was so beautiful, designed for heavenly divinity. He could be worshipped for his agony, looked upon in such a painful reverence.

He was a cry of hallelujah and a merciful sin.

The Angel of Thursday held the Righteous Man in his borrowed arms, a _Pietà_ of hyperbolic expression. With the most delicate of gestures, he brushed a tear from beneath the shut eyelid of his charge, his Grace keening with phantom horror.

Sometimes he was reminded of just how breakable human beings could be.

Dean Winchester wept in his sleep, because he knew that he had hairline cracks running through his body, and soon he would fall apart.

* * *

 

_"Come on, Sammy, it ain't so bad." Dean clutches his small brother close, sharing comfort and heartbreak. "Dad's gonna get back on his feet in no time, you'll see."_

_"B-But what if he doesn't?" the young child asked, equal parts terrified and hopeful._

_Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder. "He will, Sam." he whispered, half to himself. "He'll be alright."_

* * *

 

Sam Winchester sits before sheets so clean they are close to holiness, his head bent and hands clasped in desperate prayer.

"Please," he murmurs, voice shaking. "Please."

God doesn't listen. Dean has blood on his lips and they know his story is ending.

* * *

 

The first time it happened, they were hunting and happy. They were laughing and covered in the blood of a vampire and had their heads tipped back to the glorious starlight. Dean was throwing supplies back into the trunk of his beloved car, Sam joking and Castiel standing off to the side, an amused expression adorning his face.

They were in a temporary euphoria; an amazing utopia.

Then Dean lets in a shaky gasp of air. His arms tremble. His eyes flicker up to his angel, a plea in his gaze as he feels himself falling for not the first time and hardly for the the last.

He wakes to Sam crying, Castiel carefully emotionless and two words printed in precise type font on a flawless page:

_Acute Leukemia._

He dare not speak, for he is choking on fear and his voice has simply vanished.

* * *

 

Castiel holds him when he screams.

He holds him when they find small wisps of dark blonde hair in the shower.

He holds him when Dean looses consciousness from the pain.

He holds him when the doctor tells them _'a month'_.

He holds him when he can't move, and when he can.

An angel holds a man when he cannot go on anymore.

* * *

 

When a boy still tainted with demon blood brought up their mortality many a month ago, his brother threw it back in his face. He taunted him, mocking his fear, reminding him of their youth and courage and infallibility.

Now a man with a broken resolve brings up the matter with his brother, and his brother does nothing but sit in cold silence.

Sam clasps Dean's hand and makes a promise to keep fighting without him, because wars don't stop for soldier casualties.

They battle tooth and nail until they too join their comrades six feet under.

The Winchesters sit together for a long time, cherishing each other. Dean feels his brother's pulse against his own wrist and thinks, _I'm meant to leave him be_.

But it still hurts.

* * *

 

"Cas, I think I'm going to back to Hell."

* * *

 

He thinks it poetic that the sun is setting and his lungs rasp for stolen air. Dean Winchester steals life, it is all he has ever done. In the Pit, he fears he will take the liveliness out of souls too.

Castiel holds his hand tightly; it hurts, but he doesn't complain. It was one of his last requests.

He lies on a motel bed in the middle of nowhere and he wants to put a bullet through his brain.

Castiel shifts, regret and fear and anger and an exquisite, unashamed _ache_ flooding his vessel's eyes and pouring from his fingertips. His voice wants to comand the English language to his will again, offer ersatz excuses to his human, tell him that he is so very, very sorry. However, he is brought to muteness by the anguish scrawled over Dean's face. It is not a time for words, words have now failed him. It is a time for no mistakes, for the finality of life and last glances.

It is time for Dean to smile for the last time.

Dean stares at the slowly Falling angel, the sides of his mouth quirked in the tormenting imitation of a smirk. He drinks Castiel's forgiveness, the final atoning of their sins washed away by blessed emotion. Dean apologises without making a sound, but Castiel wishes he did. Dean is too silent, too still, too apathetic.

Sam couldn't be there. Dean didn't want his last sight to be of his brother sobbing over his thin, sickly body, and Sam wouldn't deny his elder sibling anything. They had held each other one last time, one small, weak person pressed against a healthy one with such a love flowing between them they had no possible way of telling each other how much pain they would be in soon.

So Castiel watches Dean struggle to breathe and does not tempt him with unrequited promises.

He knows Dean will go to Hell, this time for good.

Dean's hand twitches against his own, and the angel allows himself a tiny smile. "You should be resting." he whispers in the darkness of that cheap motel room. Dean gulps in reply. They know his body was collapsing faster and faster, and now he cannot fight any longer. Dean gasps for breath.

Castiel looks down, uncharacteristically shameful. "I had hoped you would be in perfect health when I said this, Dean, but I..." he trails off, licking his lips unnecessarily. "When I pulled you from Hell, I did it by my own choice. Yes, my Garrison was the one to lay seige on Perdition, but I wanted to save you, Dean. I -"

"S'okay, Cas," comes the slur of Dean's wrecked voice. "I know."

"Let me finish." Castiel says, firmer than he planned. He wants to scream. "I have seen your soul Dean, and I know you will refuse to believe this, but you are pure." He leans down, so careful, and brushes his lips against Dean's sunken cheek. He says his next words staring down at him, his human's eyes glazed. "You are good, not fit for Hell. I am so sorry you have to return. I would give anything - anything - to go in your place. I -" Dean starts to choke. Castiel closes his eyes, and whispers:

"I love you, Dean Winchester."

But Dean has already stopped breathing.

* * *

 

He wanted to say: _I love you too, Cas._

* * *

 

Two days later doctors announce a hopeful treatment for leukemia.

And Dean Winchester but is ash and memories.

* * *

 

_We are the Dead. Short days ago_  
 _We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,_  
 _Loved and were loved, and now we lie_  
 _In Flanders fields._

_-John McCrae_


End file.
